


Not the End

by danceswithoutwolves



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, angbang, i definitely did not write this at 3 am, mairon needs a hug, seriously half of this is angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithoutwolves/pseuds/danceswithoutwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor and Mairon will never have a happy ending. They can get close though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the End

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the war of wrath, but canon divergent as I have a weakness for a certain two dork lords. Can be read alone, but works better if read after This Game We Play by the lovely theeventualwinner (which basically makes this fanfiction fanfiction; yeah, I went there).

The orcs lead him far away, traversing mountains and wading through rivers, but none of the passing terrain registers in Mairon’s mind. His body cuts across country, but his heart remains with his master, and it is cracked in dreadful crimson filigrees oozing blood, the last blood of his that his master will ever spill, and while blood has run in cascades down his back and chest and arms and legs an innumerable amount of times, this final torture is undoubtedly the most excruciating.

The last moments he spent with his master repeat endlessly in his mind, a whirlwind of color and noise and crushing, crushing anguish. Lying down immobilized by agony. Eyes painstakingly opened drinking in the sight of his master, dark and terrible, horrific war hammer in hand. Bruised lips obscenely crushed together, a pathetic semblance of a goodbye. Hauled away from his master, animalistic screams ripping savagely through his abused throat, his master turning away to defend himself in vain from his inexorable doom.

Mairon drowns in regret. Regret at never vocalizing his feelings, regret at never showing his master how much he meant to him, regret at never uttering those three binding, fatal syllables. Rain has poured down incessantly for a week now, and while the orcs ( _his friends_ , some ignored part of his subconscious reminds him) make an effort to shelter him from it, providing him with an oilskin cloak, Mairon barely appears to register it. The wetness falling from the grey sky (grey, like his master’s eyes before they parted for what would undoubtedly be eter-) streams down his face, substitution for the tears his red-rimmed eyes are too swollen and crusty to cry anymore, tear ducts long since emptied. The sky cries for him.

Mairon walks with a gaping hole in his chest and a renegade mind forcing him to relive memories of his beloved master. Against his will, he replays the joys and sorrows he has endured at the hands of his master, and while the sorrowful memories are painful to endure, the joyous ones are gut-wrenching. After all, once someone we love is gone, it is the happy memories we have of them that hurt the most. Mairon watches these gleeful memories through a filter of bitterness, anguish tainting every seductive smile and rare laugh of his master’s.

He remembers his first meeting with Melkor; toiling in the forge when his future master came and interrupted him; blushing deep crimson when he left and bringing a hand up to touch his face where Melkor had delicately stroked from cheekbone to chin, still feeling that phantom touch. 

He remembers the flush of pride that washed over him as his master named him Lieutenant, the erratic beating of his heart as his master turned his golden gaze down at him and smiled sincerely for the first time in a long time. 

He remembers how his master placed one slender finger under his chin to lift it, then leaned down to kiss him - their first kiss -, surprisingly gentle before Mairon reached up to thread a hand into his master’s raven hair and crush their lips together. They kissed bathed in the light of the blood-red sun as it descended below the western horizon and did not care who watched. 

He also remembers their last kiss, desperate and wet and tragic before he was dragged bodily away, screaming his master’s name as his treacherous body screamed in pain. He remembers stealing one final glance at his master and seeing-

With a heaving gasp, he tears himself away from his remembrance and forces himself to return to the external world. He stares wildly at his feet for a few moments as he attempts to calm his frantic breathing, blinking his barren eyes in an automatic response to clear phantom tears. His breathing eventually resumes in a relatively tranquil manner, calm but for sporadic shudders as he inhales. The rhythmic crunching of feet on soil and soft clanging of various weapons in close proximity lull him into a walking daze, blissful numbness replacing biting awareness.

They walk for hours more before Mairon falls victim to his grief once more; he hears _his_ voice, and it says his name. He presses the palm of his hand to his forehead as if he can physically push the memories away, though he is so unfortunately aware that that is not possible. He hears his name again, and the orcs in front of him have ceased moving, but he can’t bring himself to care while his name, spoken from his master’s lips, echoes in his mind; it is all he can do to fight valiantly against the tide of anguish that threatens to crush him. 

The crowd parts around him and then two strong arms are grasping his biceps, swiveling him like some pathetic ragdoll to face someone he can’t muster up the energy to look at or care about. He gazes hollowly at the chest before him, covered in obsidian armor. Obsidian armor- and his stomach drops. His broken heart picks up a violent pace, leaping into his throat as he doesn’t dare hope for this to be (him) but it’s already too late and he is wishing desperately.

“Mairon?”

He wants to respond but his heart is lodged firmly in his throat and he is suffocating on his hammering pulse. 

“Look at me, little one.”

Obedience is ingrained in his tainted blood; Mairon looks up.

His master looks down at him, worried, and there is a new gash adorning the right side of his forehead, but he is there. He is really there. 

Mairon tries to choke back a tearless sob and fails; tries to speak but fails; and so he does the thing he has so hopelessly craved: he kisses his master in the pouring rain, tangling his hands in soft black hair as his master winds armored arms around his waist, and they do not care who watches.

Mairon doesn’t fool himself into believing that this is their happy ending; he will bleed at the hands of his master again, he will suffer cruel abasement, they will fight ruthless wars, and further scars will decorate their flesh. He will both experience and administer pain, but as long as his master remains by his side, he will be alright. This is not their happy ending, rather an uplifting moment in the middle, but Mairon will enjoy pleasure where he can, as his world, which for a time stood paralyzed and engulfed in anguish, spins once more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And so Melkor and Mairon lived happily ever after, resurrecting Ancalagon to ride him off into the sunset (what do you mean that's not what actually happens in the Silmarillion).


End file.
